walk it off now
by possibilist
Summary: Quinn-centric drabble. Fragments; not crying; all the breaking there. Little!Quinn, Fabrastings, endgame Faberry. Headcanon of current universe.


[drabble. quinn. not crying, all the breaking there. little!quinn, faberry.]

...

walk it off now

.

_that walls should fall is the consequence of blowing your own trumpet.  
_—jeanette winterson, _oranges are not the only fruit_

...

Swingset.

You think of nothing else at that moment than the fact you're going to be in trouble, because your arm isn't at the right angle and that's a hassle and your mom is at bible study and Frannie is at soccer and your dad said to be quiet and play.

You don't cry; wait for a few minutes instead, to see if you're dreaming. Nightmaring. You're not: your arm grows the blue of the clouds before a thunderstorm in summer. Swells like them, crack boom.

Seven bird chirps later—for each year you have not died—you push open the back door. You call, Dad.

He comes from his study, hard jaw; in some ways you've inherited this later. You cradle your arm. Years later, at Yale, you'll take your first philosophy of language class and leave because the trace of the word cradle makes you unable to cry in public.

He sees you; your eyes are your grandfather's, who fought in WWII. You never asked how many people he killed but it must've been enough because he didn't die. Maybe your father inherited this hand-staining; you do not know. May now you've inherited that too: Blood is seeping into your hand, turning it different colors, saturated and too-soft. You do not know this either.

Your father gets you an ice pack from the freezer. He tells you to wait until your mother comes home. He tells you not to jump off the swings again.

You don't.

.

_Cava me pecho y no me toca—Hollowing my chest without ever touching me—_

You probably have a concussion: Paz is swarming your head over the pain of your spotters dropping you. Perhaps this is learned. Perhaps Paz is just the right amount of pleasure and pain.

Perhaps you've just tried too hard at Spanish lately. Perhaps your mouth likes its sharpness. Perhaps you've discovered something more tragic than your cells.

They say things over you. Santana asks how many fingers she's holding up. Dos, you say, two.

Someone from athletic training comes over to you. Presses a cloth against your forehead. It blooms red—your brain translates this for you: Euphemism. Blood. Bleeding. Exsanguination. La misma terca sílaba de sangre—I am a pause.

She tells you that you need stitches. You shake your head. It splits again, bone beg break. You have gone for too long ignoring things that scar. Later Spencer will be able to tell you that it's older than the scars littering your hairline from shattered glass. You don't know how she can tell. Maybe your body is partly hers.

Goddamn. Santana says it loudly. Goddamn.

Your wrists are intact, you notice. Secondly. You look for them. The small forever-bump on your right one. Like a fingerprint. Yo, me. Someone else will find it someday. Not now. At the moment you cannot afford to put your hands back on the wrong way.

No, you say. No.

.

Fuck.

Your favorite word to think. You think it over. Euphemism. Sometimes euphemisms just aren't. Euphemism. Fuck fuck fuck.

Your physical therapist smiles at you encouraging. The air is gone from around your legs.

Joder. Fuck.

You don't say it aloud—you never do. You don't cry. You want to show her the palms of your hands. You want to show her the stitches along your ribs. You want to show her the metal plates screwed into your spine. _Nadie acaba en sí mismo—_

That is how things go. Finn: Do you feel anything?

Not now, at least. You feel less. You feel more.

Wrists. Maybe it works the same way blindness does: Can your hands feel more now? Are your fingertips trembling powerful?

You're practiced at waiting.

Fuck.

.

Stop crying. Stop crying. Calm down. You don't need to be angry. Where is God in all this? Can you answer that? How have your life decisions worked out so far? Stop crying. Stop crying. Stop crying.

Euphemism.

Stop crying.

.

It hurts—it being expressive of artlessness of language.

You were a lonely child. Ignored. Pressured. Abused—although you are not always at terms with that. (Revisionist, your therapist says. Revisionist history—you do not want to be an abused child.) Your body has been assembled and reassembled. Backwards. Spaced differently. You've felt too much for a long time.

Spencer doesn't wipe your tears. Floor—Floors you. Rocks you.

She kisses them.

She doesn't tell you to stop.

You're beautiful. She tells you this. She kisses you.

Baudrillard, roughly: _mais le reste est ce qui est donné pour vous en tant que quelque chose de plus—but the rest is what is given to you as something extra— _

You think in some sort of French. In its softness. In its richness. In all the words of all of the cells Victor Hugo must've carried to Paris in his palms.

You do not deserve to have any portion of your being kissed. Translated. Loved.

Thank you, you say. Merci.

.

The actual first time you break is with Rachel.

By now—euphemism—your wrists. Fuck. Stop crying.

I'm in love with you.

_In love_.

She smiles, and you cannot stop. You break. She traces your veins. Maybe you are new, but you are feeling. Your chest pounds. You are afraid of your ribs.

Me too, she says. It's okay. Me too. Me too.

If you could think in any language, you might—_me he tendido a la sombra de un árbol de latidos; Je posai mes doigts sur les yeux—_

__Euphemism.

Lips. Hipbone jut. Wrists.

_Fuck_.

You say: This is where the rest of life begins.


End file.
